Rescue me
by codename.penguin
Summary: A badly beaten Sherlock is grateful for a little help, even if his doctor is a bit battered himself. AU. Winglock!
1. Mutation

**Anote**: I appear to be obsessed with AU's recently. Here is a dabble into the Winglock universe which I find fascinating! My world is normal except for the fact that some people have wings. This is a friendship story. I stole the image off the internet. Let me know if it is yours.

Chapter 1-**Mutation**

As a child, John never thought much about his appearance.

People cooed over him and stared in wonder, and asked him to unfurl his wings, but he never thought much about it really. Then he went to high school, where looking different was guaranteed to get you bullied and pushed around. University was better. Everyone was much too terrified of failing exams to be too picky about what study group they were in, and everyone wanted to be his group, because he was at the top of the class.

Now as a grown man, John was not self conscious when people stared at his wings as he walked down the street.

It was just a way of life.

Sometimes his unique mutation even came in handy in his chosen profession because a patient fighting and struggling in pain, would just stop and gawk in amazement when the doctor gently opened his wings over them. Not once had this maneuver failed because as his mother had put it, when John extended his wings like that, he looked like an angel.

The reason for such a dramatic and somewhat poetic statement was because John's wings were pure white, caused by a rare mutation that appeared in one in every five million people. John didn't even think that there was anyone else in England with the trait. Most everyone who had wings either had black, or brown or cream or some mix in between, according to their hair colour.

However, it was during his tour in Afghanistan that John had found a new use for his unusually colored wings.

A little girl was dying in his arms, and she had pointed at his back and begged for them. His superiors had told him under no circumstances was he to do so, as their brilliant color could make him an instant target in the red sand desert, as sure as a bulls-eye on his back.

But how could he refuse?

He opened his wings and wrapped it around the girl who was little more than a toddler, and held her close until she passed. Tears had rolled down his dust covered cheeks, as he used his hand to close her eyes that seemed at peace, now that her spirit was in a place where there was no more pain.

He had found himself doing this a lot during this time, both for his own men as well as the 'enemy'. There were so many dead.

When he returned to England, he didn't open his wings anymore because he wasn't sure he could.

An enemy bullet had fractured one of the small but vital bones, and the doctors didn't have much hope that he would ever fly again. Sometimes, he tried to at least open them when he was alone in his dark little room in the men's hostel, but it was too painful and he would fall face down on the bed exhausted, and cry himself to sleep. It was true what people said; you never really value something until it wasn't there any longer.

So one day John Watson, ex-army captain and army doctor was walking around aimlessly; worrying about his rent money, when several shadows in the sky caught his eye.

The winged didn't really fly in the city because the danger of collision was very real.

There were designated areas for them of course, usually in the same areas where other people jogged but this wasn't one of those areas. In fact, this was one of those areas where there were so much electrical wire and narrow alleys, that it would almost be considered as suicide.

Curious now he peeked down the closest alley. It took him a moment to realize that the black smudge on the ground was actually a person.

'Hey!' he shouted as he ran forward bravely, 'you alright?'

The black smudge didn't move.

John groaned in sympathy to see the mess of the stranger's face, as he brushed away the long, dark curls that had fallen over the man's eyes.

'Someone call an ambulance!' John shouted to some curious on-lookers who had crept closer. 'This fellow has been attacked, I think by those people flying off there!'

As he took off his coat and lay it gently over the man's battered body, John immediately started doctoring with what little he had in his pockets. He grabbed up a long blue scarf that lay on the ground nearby and wadded it up, preparing to use it as a bandage if needed.

'Don't worry, you are safe,' he murmured, as he had ran his hands expertly down the man's sides, straining his eyes looking for blood. 'Hang on, don't move.'

A pair of grey blue eyes slowly opened to look up at him, but John was so occupied that he didn't notice. In the gloomy alley it was hard to see anything, which would explain why he didn't notice the injured man also had wings, and that these wings were quietly unfurling into an attack posture. Higher and higher, the midnight blue black appendages loomed over and around John, like a cage of darkness.

The faint threatening rustle was the only warning John got, and instinctively his own wings shot out to protect him.

The two men both sucked in a deep breath of shock, as their wings sifted together.

This was generally considered to be an incredibly intimate gesture, partly because it involved a great deal of trust as they could both be injured if one of them moved to quickly now. But John couldn't worry about the social awkwardness of their position just at the moment , because as his wings had snapped open, an explosion of blinding pain ran through his body, almost causing him to throw up.

As such, the poor doctor's eyes rolled up in the back of his head, and in the next moment he knew nothing more.


	2. The Angel of death

**Anote:** I feel flattered that my usual readers who are not really interested in Winglock, are taking the time out to read this story, just because they like my writing. Thanks so much! I might be able to do some short posts during the week. Suggestions are welcome.

Chapter 2- **The Angel of death**

With a groan, John lifted his head, only to be stopped as powerful hands closed over his biceps; immobilizing him in place.

'You can of course, sit up, but please do so carefully,' a hoarse voice whispered somewhere near his left ear, 'our wings are still locked together.'

It would be an understatement to say that John was mortified to find his limbs all tangled up with a stranger, and with a man to make it worse!

'However, if you would be so kind as to _not_ move at all,' the same voice continued, 'I would be forever in your debt.'

'What happened?' John asked automatically, as he lay his head back down on the man's shoulder. He felt uncomfortable of course, because of the rules of social proximity, but not afraid. The man who held him had the polished accents of a gentleman, not a street ruffian and besides, John could hear other people moving around them.

'I miscalculated and was beaten to a pulp, you tried to help and fainted, and now the paramedics are here to save the day,' the man summarized succinctly, 'thank you for not moving. I strongly suspect that two of my ribs are damaged.'

Dear God!

'I'm sorry,' John cried, appalled that he had collapsed on a person who may have broken ribs. Helplessly, he twisted his head around and up, to scowl at their wings woven unevenly together.

'Do not apologise. I am off my game today,' the man corrected him, 'I have sadly misjudged the events of this evening, and I thought you were one of them coming back to finish me off. Thank you for ...err... stopping. It was ...quite good of you, to ...to want to help.'

'Big help I turned out to be,' John quipped sourly, as his shoulders trembled with the effort of staying still.

'You were a big help,' the man insisted in a soft voice, 'because of you, I didn't have to be alone in the darkness and the pain.'

'But I must be hurting you now!?' John insisted in return.

'I would of course rather you _not_ be lying on my chest,' the stranger remarked calmly, 'but there is no way you can help it, at this present time. Perhaps it is retribution for re-aggravating your old injury. Forgive me, friend.'

John sighed, 'It's fine.'

Now that his wings were out he felt no pain, but John shuddered to think about what would happen when he had to close them again. It felt awesome to feel the cool night breeze through his feathers though. He would leave them out a while before trying to pull them back in again.

'Iraq or Afghanistan?' the stranger asked quietly.

'Afghanistan,' John replied after a surprise pause, wondering how the man could tell he had done a tour. Were his tags showing?

Just then two or three paramedics approached them, and offered their assistance in prying their feathers apart.

John swallowed nervously but nodded his head.

'On three,' John announced, as he felt the play of muscles across the stranger's chest; readying themselves for the slow and tedious process. The doctor let out the breath he was holding, as the pain he expected didn't come. The stranger was moving so absurdly slow, he could feel nothing at all. John smiled at the man's kindness and raised his head to look behind them doctor then sighed in resignation, when he noticed all the people around them, ogling freely at his wings.

'The're staring at me, you know,' the other man lied, 'I've just been informed that my face can now give Medusa a run for her money.'

John snorted softly at his little joke.

Interested and curious now, the ex-army doctor looked up, trying to get a better view of the stranger. He was young, maybe around thirty; good looking in that way the ladies preferred, but that fact was a bit marred as his face was starting to swell from his injuries. The man would have some spectacular bruises in the morning. 'You look like a fright.'

'And that would make the fourth person who has told me that,' he remarked, trying to smile but wincing as some abused facial muscles protested. 'Although I put more stock in your observations, being a medical man and all.'

Surprised again, John started. 'Do I know you, sir?!'

'I am Sherlock Holmes,' the man said as he closed his eyes, 'Good. Now you know me. I am most pleased.'

'Errr...right, well I am Watson.. John,' he replied flummoxed at the way the man seemed to know so much about him. Sherlock only hummed in reply, and they fell in a sort of comfortable silence as Sherlock rested.

Soon one of the wings came apart and with a small groan of pleasure, Sherlock stretched out the limb leisurely, causing John to stare in jealously. It was a long time since he was close to another winged person, and for good reason. Why would he want to be reminded of a life that he no longer could be part of?

'Your feathers are beautiful,' John said in awe, as he stared sadly in fascination at the play of the light over the dark color. Sherlock's wings had a healthy sheen to them, and the black was interspersed with blue, red and gold highlights, as they moved in the light.

Contemplatively, Sherlock observed how the other man stared longingly at his wing, and he drew it back, 'Would you be so kind?'

For a moment John hesitated, before he reached out one hand, and began re-aligning the feathers that were out of place. It was quite similar to combing an untidy person's hair and unconsciously, John began to smile as the familiarity of the activity lulled him into a peaceful state.

His one wing that had been freed from Sherlock's, now unfurled completely for the first time in months, raising high in the air, over him.

If John was aware that every single person in the vicinity, winged or not, had stopped what they were doing to gawk at him, he wasn't showing it. Sherlock tried not to stare along with the rest of the morons, but it was a bit impossible as he had the proverbial best seat in the house.

'John, the first time I saw your wings...' Sherlock began after he had forcibly cleared his throat, 'I thought it was the angel of death come to reap my black heart.'

John glanced up with a small smile, remembering all those times in Afghanistan when he had done just that. 'I get that a lot. Sorry, if I scared you. Sherlock, everyone is staring at me, but there's one man staring at you from the crowd. Should I tell someone?'

Sherlock swore softly under his breath, even as he was quite impressed by the doctor's observational skills, 'Does he have an umbrella?'

'Yes.'

'Ignore him and have nothing to do with him in the future!' he commanded in a querulous and unreasonable tone. 'He is exceedingly poor company to keep, and likewise this sorry specimen who is approaching us now.'

John looked up again, as someone who looked like an investigator approached with a clip board.'Dr. Watson, is it? Were you involved in the altercation? I see that you are injured.'

'Anderson, can't you see it is an old injury?' Sherlock spat out in annoyance, 'Oh my God, where did you get your degree?! In a box of oatmeal?! Look, my head is aching something terrible, just...go over there and find something useful to do! Send Lestrade to me as soon as he gets here.'

'Just a minute!' the man called Anderson protested, only to be cut off as Sherlock rudely snapped up his one wing around them, blocking the investigator from his sight.

'As you can see John, I am surrounding by imbeciles,' he grumbled conversationally, 'as if I wasn't in enough pain from my injuries.'

Sherlock ruffled his feathers slightly in annoyance, before curling the wing to gently brush the tip over John's hands, 'if you are not too tired, please, do continue. You have a deft touch.'


	3. Marvelous awe

**Anote**- Congratulations to Benedict and Martin on their respective Emmy awards for the show Sherlock! The awards just make it official that their acting 'chemistry' is the best there is on television! Woo-hoo!

As regards this story, I am surprised by all the interest, so I will keep going. Guess you all are just as fascinated as I am by the concept. Warning: the chapters will be short and a bit unpolished, as I am writing this waiting in grocery lines and in the lunch room, so I apologise in advance.

Chapter 3- **Marvelous awe**

When a specially modified ambulance pulled up with a police escort, John began to suspect Sherlock was someone important.

Ambulances for the winged were usually larger than most, but even regular ambulances were designed to open to accommodate their kind, even with their wings fully extended.

However, by the time they moved a sleeping Sherlock inside, John was glad that the vehicle had stretching his wings to the fullest, John couldn't touch the sides of the steel interior, but they had been forced to gently curl Sherlock's wings to get all of him to fit.

It was wall to wall black feathers, to put it mildly.

John was amazed at Sherlock's wingspan, and concluded that the man must be a powerful flier. A vague nebulous idea began to form in his mind as the paramedics secured their charge; an idea that Sherlock would be strong enough to take someone in flight with him if he wanted to.

The doctor brushed the fanciful thought aside as the paramedics made room for him, and soon they were off to hospital.

Another reason the small man was glad for the larger ambulance, was because it could close didn't want to imagine how the travelling public of London would react, if they saw a pair of snowy wings protruding from the top of an open air ambulance, as it sped along with all of its lights blazing. The Angel of mercy or death (depending on your preference) persona that his wings typically invoked, might be enough to cause numerous fender benders.

He had already had his fill of excitement for one evening, thank you very much.

At the moment though, John frowned as he concentrated on the man lying on the stretcher. Had he looked like that when he had been shot? Bruised, battered, with his wings limp and puddled around and about him in a pathetic heap?

With some effort John shook free of the terrible memory, and with a determined stride he moved forward to scoop up Sherlock's feathers in his arms; gently forcing a space for himself to kneel at the man's side.

This technique didn't work for everyone, because few people really had the patience or the knack for it, but John wanted to try. It was too much to see Sherlock like this; a helpless and vulnerable mess on a lonely plank of metal. Bending low over the injured man, John placed one hand on his dark curly hair and began to speak softly into his ear.

Curiously, the paramedics eagerly peeped over his shoulder. Long minutes passed and just as John was thinking that this wasn't going to work, he heard it.

The real trick was the delivery, not the content, and when Sherlock asked him later, John admitted that in actuality, he was summarizing the last episode of Top Gear he had seen just that morning. The key was a calm cadence because Sherlock, soothed by the sound of his voice, began re-aligning his feathers one at a time even though he was still dead to the world. In a matter of moments, Sherlock's dark wings brushed softly against John's arms and chest as they closed fully and neatly tucked up at his back.

A loud enthusiastic burst of applause came from the admiring paramedics, but John was nonplussed at this. He hadn't done anything that they couldn't do.

On a day to day basis, John did his best to tune out such grandiose praise, because from his experiences in the world, if he only hiccuped, he would be greeted with the same thunderous response. This was part of the reason he stayed in his room in the hostel all day long. You had to be in a certain mental state, to be able to properly process the type of movie star adoration he got from his unusually colored wings. In any case, he was just happy now that Sherlock's wings were again closed and out of potential danger. As with all things, sometimes it was the most powerful parts of a person that could be the easiest to damage. He would be in a position to know.

Within ten minutes they were at the hospital.

John of course, hopped out to help, but then to his huge surprise, he found himself being gently encouraged along into the treatment room.

He shouldn't be in here and he knew it.

He had no privileges at this hospital and was distinctly out of place, as the gowned, capped and gloved medical staff danced around like a swarm of light blue butterflies in sterile jackets. John could also tell, that he was distracting everyone with his wings even though he had lowered them as best as he could. After a while of this, he tried to edge along the wall to escape into a waiting room. However, when one of the orderlies made way to tie down Sherlock's wings; John Watson found himself blindly running forward with a loud shout.

The room fell back with a gasp of surprise at the sudden change in the compelling stranger who, though dressed in such shabby clothes, was arrayed in feathery finery that gave him a royal bearing. Gentle, shy and humble, he had first seemed but not now. Now the man was cold and stern; hard eyes boring into each of their faces; daring them to approach and in turn reap the consequences of that decision.

Yes, they all stared mesmerized as his white wings unfolded high and wide over their sleeping patient, but at this particular moment, the stirring sight incited feelings more along the lines of nervous fascination, rather than marvelous awe.


	4. Alone

Chapter 4- **Alone**

John knew he was being unreasonable, so he really didn't need an orderly to tell him that.

Yes, he could acknowledge in his head, that it was probably a good idea to immobilize Sherlock's wings against his body. The injured man could suddenly wake up startled by some noise or pain, throw out his enormous appendages and bash some heads together, not to mention smash all the delicate instruments in the room, before he realized where he was.

It was just so...

_wrong?_

_humiliating?_

_disgusting?_

John breathed in deeply, realising he was projecting his own fears and insecurities on the situation in front of him.

He had been working through an army appointed therapist for a while to get a handle on his injury. Sometimes it seemed to be working; other times he just couldn't be bothered to get out of bed.

With some effort, the ex-army doctor lowered his wings from its attack posture, and shuffled around to stand at Sherlock's head. As a comprise, John suggested that he would keep a firm hold of Sherlock's shoulder to restrain him if needed, while the rest of them finished their tasks.

Of course, the nurses refused.

With a bright blush of mortification, John then fluffed up his feathers and smiled coyly to one and all.

At that moment, John wanted nothing more than to die of embarrassment, but he didn't know what else to do, and this had worked in the past; both on men and women. Sure enough, Sherlock's restraints were whisked out of sight, as John allowed some of the staff to come closer and touch his wings.

John forced himself not to shudder too visibly at the rapturous exclamations of 'y_ou're so beautiful! It's so soft! Can I have a feather?'_

It wasn't painful as much as it was invasive and humiliating. Would you let a prefect stranger walk up to you, and gently stroke your hair?

John closed his eyes with a sigh. Cheese on toast, this was bloody uncomfortable!

Sherlock owed him at least a dinner for this. Something nice, where there were waiters and menus, and a bloke with a guitar and keyboard in the corner.

Thankfully, they were soon done and Sherlock, exhausted from the pain of his attack, had mercifully slumbered on through all the x-rays.

However, as they were wheeling Sherlock into a recovery room, John was scratching his head, wondering why all these tests were necessary. Did Sherlock have some sort of medical condition that could be a complication?

He snuck a quick peek at the man's chart when no one was looking, and was relieved that the numbers all seemed fine.

Walking along the busy corridors, John thought that it was right odd how close he felt to the stranger at his side. Perhaps he was turning into a recluse, without realizing it. Perhaps he should really make an effort to try to interact more with the other vets, when there were activities at the hostel. Just as he was considering how deeply depressing that might be, John stopped with a start, when a pretty young lady ushered them all into Sherlock's room, and asked him if he wanted something to eat.

The small man gawked at the sheer opulence of his surroundings! He didn't even know that such recovery suites existed. Perhaps, it was converted in the eventuality that one of the royals or dignitaries needed to be cared for.

As Sherlock was wheeled into place and connected to the monitors, John walked around the richly appointed facilities; trying not to look like a clueless tourist.

The room was designed like a huge apartment studio; complete with its own five piece luxury wash room, huge plasma HD television, comfortable looking leather chairs, a well stocked fridge and a welcome basket of gourmet snacks. There was even a wide balcony with a garden of flowers and bistro set; perfect for if any winged visitors wanted to drop by.

Sherlock was either definitely someone important or rich. Most likely both John mused, as one of the orderlies hung up Sherlock's damaged suit and scarf on a hook in the closet, and lined up his designer shoes at the side of the bed.

In the end, John accepted a beer from the hostess and sat in a corner; deciding to wait for Sherlock's family to arrive.

She had been disappointed by this, and he had to promise faithfully that he would press her call buzzer if he changed his mind about dinner. The idea made John squirm a bit. He didn't know Sherlock that well, and didn't want to trespass on the man's hospitality. And besides, John was getting the distinct impression that most everyone was walking away with the notion that he and Sherlock were a lot 'closer' than just acquaintances. He had seen the way the paramedics had looked at each other, and exchange knowing grins.

As the woman walked out the room, Sherlock's policeman friend walked in to take his statement and necessary particulars.

When he was leaving, Inspector Lestrade had shook his head over Sherlock's battered body in annoyance, even as he gently patted his shoulder in a fatherly sort of way. According to the grizzled Scotland yard detective, Sherlock was a handful and it had been just a matter of time before this happened. With a sigh, the older man walked away, promising to keep them informed.

After another half hour had passed as John waited, he took a fresh beer from the fridge just to have something to do with his hands. About an hour later, John helped himself to some crisps from the welcome basket, and turned on the telly.

The laugh track from the late night show, jolted John to full awareness, and with a soft cry of alarm he looked at his watch.

He was astounded that three hours had passed and no one had come!

Concerned and distressed by this turn of events, John walked over to Sherlock's bed and looked down at the man lying there. The bruises on his face were starting to blossom in earnest now, and to put it mildly, he looked like a side of hamburger meat.

Gently, he pulled up Sherlock's expensive Egyptian cotton sheets to cover his bare, bruised shoulders.

'Don't you have anyone?' he whispered quietly.

Of course Sherlock didn't reply, but the evidence was quite clear. Even though Sherlock was young, rich and good looking; there was no one in London who cared to come sit with him.

'Alone, just like me,' John murmured sadly.


	5. Super hot girlfriend

**Anote:** I was on holiday today, and I decided to spend it with John and Sherlock. School and work tomorrow, so no more posts for a while (frown).

Chapter 5- **Super hot ****girlfriend**

John fought a losing battle not to couldn't believe they were back here and again, with their wings locked together.

Was this perhaps going to be a daily feature of their relationship? They would never shake the stigma of being a couple at this rate.

'Can you reach the button for the nurse?' John asked. 'I think we need another pair of hands.'

'Why? Are you in some hurry to leave?!' Sherlock responded in a sharp voice.'Judging from the rumpled state of your clothes, it is clear you spent the night here. A few moments longer shouldn't matter.'

John raised a quizzically eyebrow at this uncalled for hostility, but perhaps it was just Sherlock's way of relieving stress.

'Don't feel so good,' the young man mumbled fretfully, as if in reply to John's unspoken thoughts.

Quickly, John depressed the red button to release more pain medication into the man's IV line, which is what caused them to become tangled up again in the first place.

The small doctor had been just on the balcony, having a nice cup of tea and enjoying the sharp stiff cold breeze of the dawn, flowing through his feathers, when he heard the rustle of bed sheets. Elated that Sherlock was finally awake, he had quickly entered and hurried over, completely startling Sherlock who had clearly thought he had been alone.

'I agree, a few moments shouldn't hurt,' John remarked calmly, as he sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, to better relieve the awkward angle of their wings being tangled. 'Not like I can go anywhere, really. Look, I'm sorry that I startled you. Again.'

Sherlock gave him an odd penetrating look. 'Yes. You do seem to do things that take me by surprise. Which is quite...odd. Very odd.'

'Odd?' John repeated defensively, 'How do you mean?'

'Odd...as in people rarely surprise me,' Sherlock clarified, as he tried to raise his head slightly; moaning softly at the effort it took. 'John?'

'I'm here.'

'I hurt everywhere!' he whined piteously, 'even my eyelashes hurt.'

'I know,' John tutted companionably, repressing the desire to snort loudly at Sherlock's martyred expression. 'Let me see how I can get us apart, and I will fetch you some tea.'

'That would be lovely,' Sherlock murmured, as he let his head roll back on his pillow.'quite lovely. Would you do that?'

'Well...if you are not phobic about germs,' John inquired hesitantly, 'you can have a sip of mine. It's really something special! That girl you have working here is amazing.'

Sherlock opened his eyes in surprise at the cup being held up to his lips, and without thinking he tentatively lifted his head, the same time John tilted his cup up.

Warm flavor rolled over his tongue, reviving him instantly. It wasn't good as coffee, but John was right. It was wonderful!

'More?' John asked softly.

Sherlock eyes widened slightly; his mind churning a millions mile a minute trying to deduce why John was doing this; why he was here, why he had stayed all night.

'Yes?' Sherlock answered unsurely.

John smiled down at him in bemusement as Sherlock tensed and try to draw back, the moment he slipped his hand under the man's curly head.

'Easy, easy,' John murmured as he brought up the cup once more to the Sherlock's lips, 'I know it hurts. I know. Don't fight me.'

As he dutiful sipped, Sherlock looked over the edge of the cup, directly up into the kind blue eyes of the friendly stranger.

'That's it,' John smiled, nodding encouragingly as his patient drank more of the strengthening liquid. 'You just swallow, I will do the rest.'

They fell into that silence that you got , when for a just a moment you were comfortable being exactly where you were.

'Will Mrs. Watson blister your ears, for not returning home last night?' Sherlock inquired conversationally, staring at a spot on the wall behind the man.

John grinned softly, inexplicably charmed by Sherlock's awkward social behavior.

'There isn't a Mrs Watson.'

Sherlock grunted and pretended to lose interest, as he took another mouthful.

'And no miniature Watsons, waiting for daddy to see them off to school?'

'No miniature Watsons,' John replied in an engaging, patient manner, that was very encouraging to Sherlock who was hopeless at making small talk.

Sherlock sighed softly, pleased that John had no important commitments that he would have to fly off to tend to.

Based on a few matters in John's appearance, he had already deduced that the man lived alone and was out of work for some reason, but Sherlock thought it best to check. He wasn't right_ all_ the time; hence the reason he was lying here with multiple and truly painful injuries.

John waggled his eyebrows in a friendly way, 'and what about you? Shouldn't your super hot girlfriend be here doing this for you?'

Sherlock frowned in confusion; wincing as his face protested this movement, 'Girlfriend? No, not really my area.'

The doctor drew back with a small frown.

_Wait...what? ...oh right...whoopsidaisy..._

John felt himself turn red a bit, 'Um... so do you have err...super hot boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.'

'I know it's fine,' Sherlock replied quickly; giving him a hard, speculatively look.

Their comfortable cozy space evaporated as they stared at each; each wondering at this sudden verbal misstep.

John was just about to apologise and change the topic, when it was now his turn to wince as Sherlock forcibly pulled apart his wings from his. By the time he was done, John was panting quietly and had a white knuckled grip on one of the bed railings. Sherlock hadn't been at all rough, but it was not a process John wanted repeated anytime soon.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock blurted out in concern, as he observed his good Samaritan's obvious signs of distress. ' I'm sorry, I didn't think. Do you need pain medicine? I have loads.'

John held up a finger indicating that he needed a minute.

When the small man finally recovered himself, it was to find that Sherlock had reached out and draped his black wings solicitously all around his legs and lower back; effectively holding him upright. John found his concern quite touching, considering Sherlock was the one who was all banged up and worse for wear.

'I'm alright,' John insisted as he gently patted the long slender wing bone across his lap, 'But let's not talk about that right now. You should get some rest.'

'I'm not tired!' Sherlock cried; an obvious lie judging from the haggard look on his face, 'we could...we could...do something! Talk or watch telly. Is there any cricket on? Just don't...'

Sherlock broke off in mid sentence with a stubborn put out look, and an angry rustle of his feathers,'it's fine. I suppose you have to go to work or something stupid like that.'

'Are you asking me to leave?'

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders indifferently, almost passing out in the process. 'Do whatever you want. It doesn't matter to me.'

The small man fell silent as he studied his shoes.

Sherlock tried not to stare like an idiot, as John's incredible wings unfolded and fluttered absently behind him. Maybe he could pretend to be interested, just so that John would want to stay with him a bit longer.

Yes, he could do that. Why not?

People fell into relationships for the stupidest reasons imaginable and besides, when John really got to know him better, he would quickly get over his obvious infatuation for his transport.

Excellent!

Sherlock congratulated himself for untangling that problem quite nicely, and just as he was about to open his mouth and say "_yes, you can be my super hot boyfriend if you want_," John turned to him.

'Sherlock, I wasn't asking you out,' he said with a firm look, 'that's not something I can offer. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, and if you would rather I go now, I'll leave.'

'Oh, really?,' the injured man replied in some skepticism; a bit distracted that John didn't seemed to be behaving in a predictable manner at all. 'Good. Thank you. Breakfast?'

John blushed as his stomach rumbled excitedly in reply.

'Breakfast would be good,' he mumbled, and the man pressed the buzzer for his serving attendant.

Sherlock hadn't asked him to leave, so that was good, wasn't it?

He really wanted to stay and do all those things the other man had suggested like talk, and watch cricket on the telly until their eyeballs fell out.

It would be almost like having a friend.

However, before John could get up and find a seat, the woman entered with a shaving set on a tray, and a neat set of clothes dangling from hangers off her arm. If she was surprised to see her employer practically wrapped around a stranger, she wasn't showing it in her face.

Sherlock inspected the items she bought, before nodding in approval.

'These are for you,' Sherlock had to explain, as John stared in embarrassed horror when the woman laid the items across his arms.

'Oh,' John stammered, not knowing what to say, 'Why?''

'Are we not having breakfast together?' Sherlock inquired tartly; giving John a light tap on the back of the head with the edge of his wing, as if to wake him up.

'Well, yes.'

'Then you must wash and dress,' he explained, wondering why John was giving him such a weird look. 'I'll order us something. Eggs, John?'


	6. A marvelous time

Flashback-_'Are we not having breakfast together?' Sherlock inquired tartly; giving John a light tap on the back of the head with the edge of his wing, as if to wake him up._

* * *

Chapter 6- **A marvelous time**

The woman hurried in with her arms filled with additional platters of food.

She was so very pleased that their intriguing visitor had finally taken an interest in eating something, and with such good appetite!

'Fanks' the small man mumbled inarticulately around a mouthful of eggs and ham, 'This is 'wesome. I wish I c'ud steal 'ou.'

She smiled and ducked her head; wondering if she wasn't blushing a bit.

The stranger's grateful and shy thanks, made him even more handsome than he already was; now that he had cleaned up and was wearing the fresh clothes she had ordered for him. The stranger's nice manners, seemed so out of place for someone who looked like he did. With his extraordinary wings, you would expect him to treat everyone as though they should lick his shoes.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the men groaned in tandem. The West Indies had scored another beautiful six.

'I take it the cricket match is not going well?' she asked conversationally; gesturing to the telly, which had been wheeled closer so Sherlock could also watch as they ate. (Well John ate, Sherlock just pretended by swirling a spoon in his bowl of beef broth).

The two young men sat side by side, looking like a pair of mismatched chess pieces as their wings fluttered in annoyance and concern for the cricket score.

'The West Indies are batting,' John informed her absently, without looking away from the replay.

'Gayle at the crease,' Sherlock then bit out, also totally absorbed by the match.

'Chasing sixty runs.'

'Three overs remaining!'

'Four wickets in hand!'

Everyone paused a bit, as they silently calculated the run rate that England would have to manage, in order to secure the victory.

At another time, the young woman would have shrugged at this typical male absorption with sports. The two cricket fans had absently finished each other sentences, with the typical fervor of those who followed the game, even in their sleep it seemed.

Curious, she glanced back at the two.

She didn't know Holmes the younger very well. Everyone said he was a borderline sociopath, and a terrible person really, but she didn't agree. He was a bit sharp at times but if someone like John (he had insisted she use his first name) favored his company, then he couldn't be all bad.

The attendant took a place in the corner, and under the cover of her book of Sudoku, she snuck quick peeks at John and his wings. However, as the next over began, the woman pressed her lips together in amusement, as the two men hooted, hollered, analysed and argued each subsequent ball that was bowled. In short, they were having a marvelous time.

John picked up the remote and with a happy smile switched off the telly, while Sherlock laughed evilly when the West Indies middle order collapsed, as per usual.

'As if there was any doubt!' Sherlock sniffed in amusement.

'Well at least they put up a fight,' John remarked kindly; nodding his thanks as his empty plates were efficiently whisked away by Sherlock's attentive server. 'Miss, don't forget you said you would get me the bill. For the new clothes, remember?'

Uncomfortably, she exchanged glances with Sherlock. It was hardly likely that John could afford to repay him for the new clothes, especially the ones she had selected. Sherlock waved her off.

'John, would you stop going on and on about your clothes!' the young man spat out, trying to distract him, 'you're being boring.'

But the ex-army captain climbed to his feet with a stubborn look, 'No, I want that bill. The only reason I accepted your offer was because I know I was beginning to smell rank.'

John eyed the way Sherlock's wings slowly unfolded high above his head; a clear sign that he wanted John back down.

After their small verbal fumble earlier, things seemed to have righted themselves as they ate and watched the television.

John had been relieved by this.

He found Sherlock quite intriguing, and was looking forward to hearing more about why he was helping Scotland Yard, among other things. Meeting Sherlock was one of the most exciting things that had happened in his life, in a long time!

So John wasn't scared exactly as the man's wings opened fully on either side of him, but he couldn't help but feel nervous.

Perhaps it was the menacing black, or just the man's gargantuan wingspan that hinted that one should not provoke this man, if given a choice. A part of John was quite certain through, that his new mate wouldn't harm a hair on his head, but there was a wildness about Sherlock that was evident in just the way he spoke.

'I pay my own way,' John said firmly but politely.

'FINE!' Sherlock shouted rudely, as he beat his wings down to vent his aggravated feelings, 'you can take it out of your bloody salary. Stop nagging me about the stupid bill!'

The ex-captain took a deliberate step back this time, as the powerful gust generated from Sherlock's wings slammed into him.

Better to be safe than sorry.

'Salary?' John repeated stupidly, when he ran their little exchange back over in his mind, 'Are you offering me a job?'

'Yes, yes!' Sherlock snapped impatiently,'Do try and keep up!

'Oh...okay. Thanks,' John said softly in some confusion at the sudden turn of events, 'I could use a job. Thanks again.'

The small man felt himself flush in embarrassment. Of course he was embarrassed! Even _he_ had figured out that he _literally_ couldn't afford the clothes on his back.

'But I am not the most reliable of people,' he felt he should warn the man. 'What is it that you require?'

'A little doctoring, what else?' Sherlock said more gently, pleased that the man had agreed so quickly, even though he had practically shouted the job offer at him. He was also a little ashamed that John seemed nervous all of a sudden. He didn't like that. He wanted John to continue carrying on the way he had been doing; as though he hadn't noticed what a freak of nature Sherlock was.

'Please, come closer,' Sherlock begged softly, as he slowly lowered his wings and tucked them away. 'I ...I wouldn't hurt you.'

Sherlock's whole face crinkled into a smile of genuine pleasure, when John smartly stepped up to his beside without any hesitance.

'And are you quite sure that your wings are alright?' the young man asked quickly as he pointed to them; trying to change the topic. 'I know you don't want to talk about it but I need to know something, so I can help you better in the future. I am not fully brushed up on wing anatomy.'

'My wings are fine,' John replied, ignoring the rest for the moment, 'But I should close them now, and I wouldn't mind some help.'

Sherlock nodded.

'John?' he prodded as the man hesitated unsurely. 'How can I help? Don't worry. If you pass out again, you are in an excellent place to get some help.'

John shuffled on his feet, trying to talk himself into coping with the pain to come. 'My specialists says it will not hurt too bad, if I close it one at a time.'

The small man didn't hold out much hope of this, but as Sherlock just pointed out, he was in a good place if he required medical help.

John turned around, 'would you?'

Their eyes met as the small man looked over shoulder.

Gently but firmly, Sherlock reached out and grasped one wing. Intrigued, he looked on eagerly as John took a deep breath and then retracted his free wing. Sherlock had never seen anyone do that before and rightly so, as the other wing tensed with such force that he almost lost his grip.

'John?'

'I am fine...wow! It stung but ...I'm alright. I can't believe that worked,' John murmured in astonishment. ' I kid you not, I really thought this was going to be a repeat of what went on in that alley when I first found you. Hang on.'

Sherlock was taken by surprise now as John began to refold his other wing, which pulled him forward; almost dumping him off the edge of the bed. Hastily Sherlock aligned the feathers as they folded in, so they would fit neatly together.

John whirled around with a look of stunned amazement. 'Oh my God. I am alright. Thank you, Sherlock!'

Sherlock fell back onto his pillow with a sharp gasp. He didn't mind helping his new nurse/doctor, but that maneuver had sapped him of all his remaining energy.

John immediately picked up the bowl of broth.

'What are you doing?!' the other man asked sharply in alarm.

'Oh ...I thought ...I thought you were hiring me to oversee your recovery.'

'I am ...but with x-rays and all of that!'

'Sherlock, this bowl of soup is part of all of that,' he quietly explained. Ineffectually, the ex-army doctor then tried to push the spoon between the man's closed lips.

John raised one eyebrow in disbelief, realizing now that Sherlock was going to be one of _those_ patients.

'Well, this is a sight!' an unfamiliar voice suddenly drawled from the doorway, 'fancy seeing you again, Dr. Watson. How fortunate, that we all here gathered.'

Sherlock looked up and groaned, covering his battered face with a soft pillow.

'Hello, Mycroft. Come to finish me off, have you?'


	7. The simple life

Anote: Warning, a little swearing in this chapter.

Chapter 7- **The simple life**

'Should we call security?' John muttered from the corner of his mouth, recognising the disconcerting stranger from the alley, even without his black umbrella.

Sherlock huffed loudly in exasperation, _wishing_ that his life could be so simple. 'No. That's fine. John, you can have a chair. This may take awhile or if you want, do have a brisk walk.'

_Leave?_

It was a given that in a one on one encounter, a non winged person, like their unwelcome visitor, was no match for a winged adversary, but Sherlock's injuries put him at a distinct disadvantage.

John's eyes cut to the group of chairs, which were unfortunately grouped in a way that meant he would have to give up his position, in between Sherlock and the well dressed man.

Finally, he glanced over at Sherlock himself. He looked calm; his wings down and in, and the expression on his face was one more of constipated irritation than anxiety, but still...

'I am fine standing here, if that's alright?' John decided, as he spread his legs apart and folded his hands behind him; settling into a military stance without realizing it.

After a moment of profound astonishment, Sherlock's lips curled up in a slow smile at the belligerent look on John's face. It would appear that his good Samaritan was also willing to add 'body guarding' to his list of doctoring duties.

Sherlock was of course confused that John, whom he only knew for a handful of hours, had taken such an apparent liking to him so quickly.

It was bloody odd.

Stuff like this never happened him.

People talked to Sherlock and then usually walked off in the next direction, as quickly as they could. He found John's stubborn loyalty deeply endearing, in what he acknowledged was an appalling amount of sentiment on his part.

'Thank you,' Sherlock said softly to the back of John's head; judging that this was an appropriate thing to say.

'I find this hard to believe,' Mycroft however remarked, as he absently slapped the I-pad he was carrying against his leg, 'in that you appear to have gotten over your trust issues quite quickly, Dr. Watson.'

John started in surprise and colored a deep plum, as the man had unexpectedly repeated the exact words that he and his therapist had "discussed" just yesterday morning.

How could he know this?

'What the fuck?!' he shouted, feeling the strong desire to pelt the steaming cup of soup in the man's face, 'Who the hell are you?!'

For some reason, this obscene response made Sherlock snigger appreciatively in the background.

When _he_ had deduced John earlier, he had gotten a gentle 'Do I know you, sir?' while Mycroft got a 'What the fuck?!'

It was enough to make Sherlock sing a happy tune.

'I find it amusing, that not only can you piss me off, Mycroft,' Sherlock chuckled sarcastically, 'but that you can royally rile up people who don't even know you. And you say you have no talent.'

The older man tilted his head with a sneering smile, 'But if I can "piss you off" as you so succinctly put it, doesn't that mean that despite all your protestations to the contrary, that I _do_ have control over you? '

'Oh Lord,' John murmured under his breath, not even having to turn around to gauge Sherlock's reaction to that.

The small doctor winced when instruments suddenly overturned and broke, as Sherlock's powerful wings snapped open aggressively with a loud swat; generating a perfect tornado in the small room as they beat together. With an exasperated sigh, the ex-army captain turned around and timing Sherlock's rhythm, he quickly ducked under one giant black wing, as it swooped up in a graceful arc.

Later on he would consider how stupid that was. If had misjudged, Sherlock could have tossed him clear across the room and knocked him senseless.

'Sherlock, stop this!' John hissed in a commanding voice; pressing down hard on Sherlock's pectoral to get his attention, 'Your ribs are in no state to be using your wings like this. Don't let him take control. Sherlock, LOOK AT ME!'

His patient turned his eyes to him; dark, black, roiling with anger.

'Sherlock, don't let him get to you so,' he murmured again soothingly, 'I don't want you to get hurt. He's not worth that.'

It took some effort but John hung on grimly, determined not to let his patient re-injure himself. The only way Sherlock was getting out of this bed, was to take him too.

It had all seemed like a good idea at first, the only feasible one really; but then John began to feel the density of the air change around him in a familiar way. He swallowed hard, as a sudden panic welled up in him.

'Sherlock?' he murmured anxiously, as he felt himself being pulled on to his toes, 'now maybe is not a good time for this, my friend.'

It was true that winged people sometimes took others with them in flight, but it was a tricky sort of business; similar to trying to swim with someone who was drowning. As one of John's medical colleagues put it during their internship, the only way he was flying with someone, is if he knocked them unconscious first.

John didn't care about all this though, he just knew that he wasn't ready to be in the air again under _any_ circumstance.

'Sherlock, please!' he begged in a muffled whisper as he clutched at the bed rail. Sherlock was much too strong for this to have any effect, but John's almost inaudible cry had penetrated his anger fogged mind, in a way that nothing so far had.

Gently, Sherlock put out one hand to anchor himself to John's side and with a deep shuddering breath, he struggled to pull himself together.

A sudden silence filled the room when Sherlock's wings stilled abruptly.

As John found his feet, Sherlock's eyes darted all around him, observing the destruction he had caused.

'Well that was ...unexpected,' John remarked lamely.

'Quite,' Sherlock agreed in an apologetic manner; feeling ashamed and embarrassed that once again, he had done something to upset his rescuer.

John had been decent to him in a way no one had been in a long time, and all he did was scare and intimidate the other man in return. It was if some part of him was trying to push John away; although he very much wanted the opposite.

'Are you calm?' John whispered, as he caught the man's gaze.

A quiet nod came from the bed. 'Yes.'

'Any sharp pains in your chest?'

'No.'

'Do you want me to punch Mycroft in the head now?'

'No, not at this exact moment.'

It was John who started giggling first and soon Sherlock joined in; holding his side as his abused body protested all this extra exercise.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, as these antics continued with so sign of stopping, 'should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?'

'Christ,' John groaned softly, when he walked off to collect to a dustpan and broom. Couldn't two blokes enjoy each other's company, without having all this suspicion being excited?

As their visitor switched on his I-pad to finally explain the reason for his visit, John eavesdropped quite unabashedly; snickering to himself when Mycroft hopped out his way to avoid getting his highly polished shoes scuffed by John's vigorous sweeping.

_Consulting detective?_

John's ears perked up eagerly.

_Wow, he solves crimes! How exciting!_

He peeked across at Sherlock with new admiration.

_Holy chocolate stars! Chinese smugglers, right here in London?!_

Then, John almost dropped the pile of broken glass, when Sherlock unexpectedly called the man his brother.

With a rueful smile the small doctor shook his head, as he realized that the earlier conversation made sense now.

It was quite evident that the two men had perfected a delicate balance of moderation, and being complete dicks to each other, which John knew from unfortunate personal experience, was something that many siblings did.


	8. Others

**Anote**: I know my Sherlock is a bit sappy. It's just a preference I have, where it is only John who can really effect any change in his manner. And to answer a PM I got, no, Mycroft doesn't have wings.

Chapter-**The Others**

Generally speaking, a good smuggler usually had an area of speciality; whether it was Japanese car parts, mobile phones, codeine, ladies underpants or in this case, Chinese antiquities. But that wasn't to say that a smuggler, wouldn't add a little extra to their contraband shipments, especially if it was small, light and literally worth its weight in gold.

Sherlock stared in disbelief; clutching at the I-pad so hard that Mycroft thought he could hear the casing begin to crack.

'Now you know why I always warn you about sentiment,' his brother muttered softly.

The older man had to duck fast, as Sherlock's left wing did its very best to slice off his head.

'Sherlock, stop that at once!' John shouted in exasperation, 'we are not doing this again! Can't you two behave for five minutes?! Your mother must have been a saint.'

Sherlock blinked and Mycroft frowned, as they turned to face John; both men wondering where the quiet solider had gone and wandered off to.

'Sooooo...' John rocked forward excitedly on his toes, tapping his broom impatiently and just generally dying to get a peek at the Chinese smugglers that he assumed Sherlock was looking at, 'anything interesting there?'

Mycroft was pleased that Sherlock handed over the pad quickly, and that there was no disgusting scene of sentiment, as to if they should involve John in anything dangerous. Sherlock obviously liked this doctor fellow but thankfully, he wasn't _that_ far gone.

'What am I looking at?' John asked, his excitement turning to confusion as he scrolled through several photos of Sherlock, out and about in the streets of London.

It was Mycroft who obligingly pointed out the white smudge in the corner, and the small doctor choked back a cry.

'You've been following me?!' John bellowed in an accusing voice, as he strode right up to the bed. 'Why? What the hell is going on?!'

Sherlock didn't look away as John's anger and suspicion broke over him, but inside his innards crawl uncomfortably.

_'Freak!' _John's narrowed blue eyes seemed to scream down at him, and Sherlock could almost taste the dirty, hateful word hanging in the air between them.

Strange.

He thought John would be different.

No matter.

It was better this way.

Of course it was.

Sherlock refocused on the present; pushing to one side the particularly pleasant memory of how John had laughed loudly at several of his jokes.

The doctor was now a means to an end.

Potential smuggler 'bait' so to speak.

Mycroft's eyes cut to his brother, as Sherlock's wings dipped down and around him in a subdued fashion.

'I was following the smugglers, John,' he finally explained in a cold voice, 'and I _failed_ to observe that they were following you.'

'Sweet God, almighty' John muttered as he sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed, when his suddenly wobbly legs gave away.

He stared down at each photograph with fresh eyes, now recognizing the blur of himself in almost every photo.

He was so focused on the device that it took John a while to notice that in the meantime, Sherlock had hesitantly curled one of his large wings across his shoulders and around to his chest, in concern. The doctor welcomed the extra warmth though, because he felt terribly cold.

Sherlock stiffened in considerable surprise, when the doctor suddenly clapped his palm over his heart, which effectively trapped Sherlock's wing in place over the man's shoulder. It was quite similar to making sure your blanket didn't fall off your shoulders.

Gently, Sherlock tried to pull his wing away, but it had no affect. John only tightened his grip.

'Dr. Watson...John, has anyone?', Mycroft began in a soft voice, as he poured the distraught man a glass of water.

'Has anyone approached me recently, wishing to buy something?' John interrupted Mycroft's questioning in a bitter, embarrassed voice. 'I think you know the answer to that. Some bloke...a trader I think, offered me five hundred pounds if I would sell one of my feathers.'

'What did he look like?! Sherlock and Mycroft yelled together, swept away in the excitement of the chase. Quickly, John fished the banker's card out of his tattered wallet and handed it over.

John had of course flatly refused the man's request.

People didn't go around selling their feathers! Sure they would grow back eventually, maybe in a year or two, but still!

The very idea had made John feel sick all over, and he shivered anew recalling the upsetting memory. Unconsciously, he turned into Sherlock's wing, seeking the warm, comforting presence of a human being that was friendly to him.

It was true that John didn't have a lot of money, but he wasn't that far gone to have to resort to selling bits of himself, like some strung out whore on a street corner.

But...

He groaned as he closed his eyes and massaged the tension in his neck with one hand.

Just that morning he was thinking about the money again. Five hundred pounds wasn't something to sneeze at!

He could pay off his rent for three months, buy a warm coat for the winter coming and still have some left over to pack his small fridge with real food; something that you didn't have to stick in the microwave or eat out of a Styrofoam box.

It was not like he was actually using his wings at the moment.

And just to slather the icing on the proverbial cake, his refusal had lead to a chain of events which resulted in Sherlock being beaten into a pulp.

John smiled sadly as Sherlock's feathers rustled anxiously across his back, as if in sympathy with his troubled state of mind. 'I am sorry I shouted at you, my friend; bit startled at this one.'

Sherlock grunted absently, feeling an odd happy lurch in his stomach, as a heavy weight was abruptly lifted off his chest.

'And I am thinking,' John continued in a small voice of shame, 'that if I only had swallowed my _massive_ pride, and just said yes the first time, you wouldn't be in this bed now. I'm sorry, can't even begin to cover it.'

There was pain in the doctor's eyes as John carefully looked over Sherlock's battered body, as though each colorful painful bruise was somehow his stupid fault.

The brothers exchanged quick glances.

It was unclear if John quite grasped the full implications of what was going on.

Smugglers were 'lusting' after the small doctor, and not the tame sort, who traded in knock off designer handbags out of the back of a car!

'And you don't have to pay me, Sherlock' John offered, 'I'll take care of you for free. I owe you.'

Mycroft snorted and shot his brother a look of incredulity. 'He offered to pay you?'

'John, stop being silly! First off, I don't accept your apology,' Sherlock sniffed, to which John naturally jerked back in surprise and hurt, 'because consider if all of this hadn't occurred, you would have missed out on this opportunity to meet me.'

John smiled wryly, as he patted the tip of Sherlock's black wing that was still pressed against his chest, 'indeed, I hadn't thought about that. That would have been unfortunate.'

'Quite!' Sherlock agreed with a pleased nod; completely missing the teasing glint in John's eyes. Sherlock's wings came up so suddenly now with his happy change in mood, that Mycroft had to again hop out of the way, to avoid being knocked unconscious.

'And second, I feel privileged to have _your_ medical assistance,' Sherlock growled defiantly; glaring in his brother's direction, 'no matter what the rest of the asinine population in England thinks!'

Mycroft raised a dubious eyebrow, wondering again at this rather odd change he saw in his brother.

John inwardly rolled his eyes, determined to stay out of this "thing" with Sherlock and Mycroft, 'Thanks. All of that was sort of...sweet, in a truly strange way.

'John, you've been calling me friend... a lot,' Sherlock suddenly blurted out, unable to contain himself any longer, 'is that ...what I mean is...what do you mean by doing that?'

Sherlock glared at Mycroft again, wishing he would just go away!

Now he regretted saying anything at all, because he really didn't need an audience for if John laughed in his face.

However, the doctor shook his head distractedly as he rose to his feet, 'Sherlock, I can't talk about this right now. Later, I promise. I should go to the police. I've got to warn the others.'

'Others?' Mycroft said sharply. 'What others?'

'Others!' John repeated worriedly, 'with wings like me. These are smugglers, right? Who's to say they would stop at taking just one feather? If they took too much at one time, it will cause trauma; people could die...I could die.'

Mycroft nodded approvingly.

John had grasped the situation with a calmness and clarity that was perhaps not surprising in a former army captain. There was apparently much that was hidden beneath those god awful horrible jumpers Watson wore.

'Do you have contact information for them?'

'We have a Facebook page.'

'Is it public?'

'Of course not!'

'Password, please.'

A warm feeling flooded Sherlock's chest when John turned around to look right at him, silently asking him what to do; trusting _him_ to be the one to help.

Carefully, Sherlock filed away the unexpected "look" in his memory palace for further examination.


	9. Houses with turrets

**Anote**: so swamped by work stuff that you get only a short filler scene today. Please be aware that although I have used many elements from the series, I will throw in a few things of my own; as you can see in this chapter. Hope that clears up any confusion.

Chapter 9- **Houses with ****turrets**

John groaned, as he leaned forward to rest his head on the steering wheel of the ambulance.

The trap for their entrepreneurial smugglers was set for the Holmes' house in the country, and while the doctor expected something pretty grand, he was not expecting anything like this.

John was fairly certain that houses with turrets, were actually _not_ called houses at all.

The ex-army captain raised his head, ogled at the magnificent stone building and its expansive grounds for a few minutes, before mentally shrugging in acceptance. The place was secluded, and that was all that was important for the plan that had been set in motion.

The doctor got out and stretched his tired muscles; feeling the play of his favourite revolver at the small of his back, as he vigilantly scanned his surroundings.

All was quiet and still as the evening sun began to set.

Approvingly, he glanced at the thick forest that surrounded them. The plentiful greenery would prove to be excellent cover for Lestrade's men to keep them under surveillance and for them to hide in too, if the plan turned out to be a cock up.

As he stared up at the bright orange sky, John had to reflect on how rapidly events had swirled about him.

After months of inactivity where he eeked out an existence in mind numbing mediocrity, now, both his coat pockets were bulging with thick wads of cash (for emergencies, Sherlock insisted when he stared in amazement); he was using his medical skills again, and to top it all off, his offer to assist in netting these dangerous criminals had been accepted, with thanks.

Sometimes change was gradual, but other times it was like a speeding locomotive.

However, John grimaced as he opened the back doors to the one troublesome wrinkle that he wasn't too sure about.

Sherlock.

Exhausted from the drive and his still healing injures, the detective was out like the proverbial light.

Mycroft had cooked up a somewhat true story, about Sherlock being a man of some means, who, grateful to his rescuer for his assistance, had hired the down on his luck ex-army doctor to care for him in his family's country residence, where he lived alone.

With John's relative poverty and white wings contrasted against Sherlock's dark, brooding appearance and wealth, the 'romantic' story of the mismatched pair, had spread through the hospital like wildfire. The resultant giggles and side ways looks of longing by the staff, were enough to even make Sherlock blush in embarrassment, which overall greatly comforted John, as he tried to hide his face in the pages of a large newspaper.

At least he wasn't suffering alone.

The doctor hoped after all this trouble they went through, that their very patient and methodical smugglers were alerted about the change in location.

John didn't mind being used as the bait, so to speak. He _wanted_ to have a crack at these 'hunters', who apparently worked for a number of wealthy art collectors in Europe and Asia.

If it had been something like wanting white feathers for some medicine or a ritual, John might have understood that, a folks were beyond superstitious and the desperate would resort to anything. But to just have his feathers as a trophy stuck to a wall...that was too nauseating and upsetting to even contemplate.

And he tried not to think about it, but he couldn't quite help it.

For a moment, he laid his forehead against the cold steel of the cab, and struggled to control his thoughts.

Mycroft had managed to get hold of everyone on John's Facebook page, except for two; Murray, an old campaigner back from World war 2, and Aya, a little girl. The patterns in the crimes hadn't been immediately apparent to anyone, because one occurred in Australia and the other in Germany.

The gang of criminals had gone after the old and the young first. It made sense they would come after the lame one now.

John's feathers puffed up in his agitation of mind.

As soon as he had a chance, he was going to get Sherlock to help him open them again. He felt much too vulnerable like this.

With another comprehensive look around them, John turned his back and activated the controls and switches that would lower Sherlock's stretcher to a more manageable height.

It was time to get the man behind the safety of the stone walls of his home.

Again, his medical training protested the very idea of having Sherlock exposed to danger. If they were surrounded or had to move quickly, the man might re-injure himself of worse! This was completely unacceptable of course, and he didn't know why he had allowed himself to agree to this.

Although John had promised himself that he would stay out of this thing with the two brothers, he had shouted at Mycroft when the government agent had first outlined the plan of attack. Mycroft had looked mortified while Sherlock had grinned gleefully behind his back, like a naughty little boy.

As a concession, Mycroft had them both implanted with trackers under the skin and John winced now as his jeans rubbed against the small wound, just on his hip.

Since it was impossible to gently roll the stretcher along the stone path, before long Sherlock woke up; immediately snapping his enormous wings open in case of danger. John smiled down at him briefly, before he concentrated on getting them safely to the door. 'Relax, we're here at your house.'

Sherlock looked up into John's red rimmed eyes.

On and off during their drive, he had thought he heard the small man sobbing softly.

Sherlock refolded his wings as they passed through the front door, 'Your white feathered colleagues may still be alive, John. My brother will find them. Depend on us.'

John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, 'They are not colleagues, they are friends. Just as you are by the way, to answer your earlier question.'

'I believe you,' Sherlock remarked around a sleepy yawn, 'you're still here with me, are you not? I am very excited to be your friend. Thank you.'

'Right,' John said with a small snort of confusion, of course not understanding that the consulting detective didn't have friends.

The small doctor closed the door and locked it behind them.

As he wheeled Sherlock around, he looked about him curiously; awed by the many paintings and expensive furnishings. 'So how about giving me the 10 pence tour of the place? What's this room, the living room?'

'John?'

'Yes?'

'We're still in the hallway.'


	10. Waiting

**Anote**: a short domestic scene today, as I get my thoughts in order for the rest of the story. No action as yet but soon. I really need to get one of them up in the air, don't you think?

Chapter 10- **Waiting**

John leaned his shoulder against the floor to ceiling glass wall of Sherlock's room, and stared out at the light filled landscape outside.

After living for months in a tiny bedsit whose only window looked out at the ugly brick of another tall building, the panoramic view of the moonlight lawn, filled John's heart with amazement and wonder.

With a small sigh, he rested his forehead against the cool glass, finding it difficult to believe that this peaceful, silent scene could shatter in an instant.

The room they were sharing was more of a large attached sun-room than an actual bedroom, but it was an excellent choice for their mission, with its high visibility and flat green lawn on three sides. It was perfect for their would be kidnappers to observe John taking care of his injured patient, all alone and unprotected.

Would they come tonight and try to take him, or begin stalking him for a few days as they had done before?

John jumped in fright, as a loud noise came from behind him. Quickly, he glanced around to watch Sherlock snuffle loudly in his sleep.

This had been a recurring event for the last three hours or so.

Sherlock couldn't roll on his side because of his damaged ribs, and the resultant snores emanating from his slightly open mouth were enough to wake the dead.

John couldn't help himself as once again, he dissolved into a series of muffled giggles.

It wasn't really funny, but John's sides were aching now with suppressed laughter. It was one of those knee jerk reactions he supposed, like watching someone slip spectacularly on a banana peel. But John felt good to have a buddy with him, even one who was making such a god awful racket. It would be foolish in the extreme to think that his present situation was not dangerous.

In the meantime, Sherlock let out another gigantic snore, but this time it was loud enough to wake him. John was only surprised that it had taken so long.

Upon opening his eyes, the detective immediately threw opened his wings to their full length, which was another reason why John was standing way over on the other side of the room, out of harm's way. As the detective scanned his immediate surroundings for danger, the man's feathers made a sharp rustling sound as they twitched in tandem, first to the left and then to the right.

'John, get away from that window!' he yelped, 'what are you doing?! you are making yourself a target!'

The small man rolled his eyes as he pushed off the glass, 'Isn't that kind of the point?'

But Sherlock just frowned at this answer and beckoned him closer.

John crossed the space and handed the man a cup with a sippy straw so he could have some water, without needing to pull himself into a sitting position.

The long sleeve of his borrowed shirt cuff fell over his wrist in the process.

'Is that my shirt you are wearing?' Sherlock asked curiously, recognizing the familiar purple color that was his particular favourite.

John felt himself flush with mild embarrassment. 'Sorry about this. Your brother said he would collect my things and he brings my gun, my mug and my laptop and forgets everything else! What is that all about?! What a wanker!'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he observed how John was crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

'John, didn't you announce just this evening that we are friends?'

'Yes,' he said unsurely, wondering where Sherlock was going with this.

'And friends borrow each other's stuff, not so?'

'On occasion, yes.'

It had't escaped Sherlock's notice that John had gone for what was his 'oldest' looking shirt. He wasn't going to mention now that it happened to be one of his favourites, as John appeared to be acutely self conscious about accepting favors, or admitting he needed help.

'Then if we examine this logically, it should be quite alright for you to borrow my stuff anytime you want to?'

'Well...I suppose that...'

Sherlock looked at him so expectantly, that it made John smile ruefully. The detective had a social awkwardness that at times was deeply endearing, and John couldn't remember the last time one of his male friends truly went out of their way to make him feel so at home.

As a result, John confidently walked over and rifled through the man's things and picked out a warm looking black sweater.

Even though it was a bit off putting to have Sherlock staring at him so happily as he pulled the garment over his head, it wasn't creepy. John found it more sad than anything, as it seemed to hint of a life as bitterly lonely as the one he lived, since returning battered and broken to England.

'Well that feels great. I am toasty warm now. Cheers,' John thanked him feelingly, 'Let me give you a check as you are awake, Sherlock.'

Obediently, the consulting detective unbuttoned his shirt while the doctor considerately warmed up his stethoscope between his hands. 'Take a deep breath.'

When he had finished listening to his lungs, John nodded his head in satisfaction, 'sounds good.'

A quick check of his eyes and reflexes followed. 'Any pain?'

'Not more since last time you asked,' Sherlock muttered impatiently, 'what time is it? Has Lestrade checked in?'

John moved his fingers gingerly over the man's tightly bandaged torso.

'It's about two in the morning, and there's nothing to report. It's quieter than a cemetery out there ' he finally remarked, drawing Sherlock's shirt closed and obligingly doing up the buttons, 'Do you want a shave?'

'What?' Sherlock asked in bemusement, wondering if this was some new way of changing the topic that he didn't know about.

The small man pointed at Sherlock's jaw. 'When I first met you, you were clean shaven. Do you want a shave?'

'At two in the morning?'

John gave him a wry smile, 'It will keep my mind busy.'

Absently Sherlock's wings scraped softly against the wall, as the detective studied the small man at his side, wondering if John, who seemed to be so cool and calm, was starting to crack under the pressure. 'Have you ever done this before?'

John was about to cheekily respond that he did so every morning, but he knew what he was being asked. 'Yes, Sherlock. I have done this for my army mates many times and, would you believe, at two in the morning.'

Sherlock laughed and then winced as his ribs protested this sudden movement. 'Fine, I accept your thoughtful offer.'

John really wondered if it was fine, when Sherlock pierced him with an intense wild eyed stare, as he readied the blade against his skin.

'You know, most people fall asleep when I do this,' John murmured as he smoothly followed the contours of the man's sharp jaw, whisking away the shaving cream in sure, supple strokes.

'I'm not tired,' Sherlock said tightly, trying to sound normal but failing utterly.

Now that he had an actual friend, Sherlock had been quite keen to experiment with some of these odd social activities he had observed, but he wasn't used to anyone standing so close to him.

Did his discomfort show in his face? Sherlock hoped it didn't.

John snorted softly as he washed the blade in a small bowl of hot water.

Discreetly, he glanced up at Sherlock's wings, which were standing so stiff and motionless high above the man's head, that they resembled dark carved stone.

'Well try to relax,' John insisted, 'it's my wings that don't work, my hands are just fine.'

The doctor then narrowed his eyes in annoyance, as Sherlock hummed doubtfully.

'What does _that_ mean?'

'What does what mean?'

'Hmmmm!' John repeated angrily for his benefit, 'You don't believe me? I was shot for God's sake. I was in the hospital. The doctor felt a distinct touch of deja vous here as Mycroft has cornered him with a similar confusing conversation, earlier in the day.

'I believe that you think your wings don't work,' Sherlock replied.

'Did your brother tell you to tell me that?' John asked sharply, 'look, just forget it. This topic is officially off limits, alright?'

The doctor tilted the other man's head with a little more force than necessary, 'just help me open them again, will you? I feel too vulnerable like this.'

'You should learn to do it by yourself.'

John pulled himself away, shocked and taken aback by Sherlock's insensitive and uncaring tone.

'Never mind, sorry I asked,' he muttered in a sour voice.

'If you use your opposite hand to hold one wing, you should be able to open them one at a time, anytime you require,' Sherlock instructed in a matter of fact tone, seemingly quite unperturbed by John's glower.

After a moment of thought, John's jaw dropped open in surprise, 'Wait, why didn't I think of that?'

'Because you're an idiot.

The doctor sighed softly in exasperation, and gave Sherlock a look of disbelief.

'Oh don't be like that, practically everybody is, ' Sherlock chided him, as he examined his reflection in the back of a silver spoon, 'quite good John, but I think you missed a spot.'


	11. Natural instincts

**Anote**: a chapter dedicated to all my fan girl readers :)

Chapter 11- **Natural instincts**

John was standing on the roof of Sherlock's "house", looking down at the forest below while high above, the darkness slowly rolled over him to signal the end of another day.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of nothing.

John sighed in disappointment as he lowered his binoculars.

Well it wasn't two weeks of nothing as had put on some weight, if you can believe that.

The Holmes' family had an incredibly well stocked larder and he had spent his days cooking, trying to find different dishes to tempt Sherlock's finicky appetite. The rest of the time, he had sat on the armchair in Sherlock's room and listened to him talk well into the midnight hours.

Sherlock had the most incredible, most_ brilliant_ adventures, and John wasn't the only one to think so.

The doctor had started to describe some of Sherlock's work in his blog, and the number of followers had increased almost exponentially, to the point where he thought he should tell Sherlock what he had been doing without his permission.

Although the comments for the blog were variable (ranging from, 'no way! what a load of bull! to 'hey, I have a friend who has a problem, can I talk to your friend Sherlock about it ?'), John was pretty happy that there were people out there who were as interested in Sherlock's amazing stories, as he was.

He had even started to make a list of all the people who wanted Sherlock's help, just in case. The man did seem to enjoy having a good mystery to gnaw at.

...and speaking of the devil.

Sherlock came up behind him, and scowled over his shoulder at the peaceful scene below, as though it was a personal insult to his existence.

'Look at that, John,' he snarled down at the woods, 'Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it _hateful?'_

John didn't think peace and quiet was hateful, but he had been soldier once. The waiting before the storm was always the worst part.

'Perhaps they have changed their minds?' John thought out loud. 'Do you think the smugglers still want me?'

Sherlock snapped opened his wings automatically, as a cool refreshing breeze came from the east. 'Yes, they are most likely trying to wear down our alertness, and they _will_ succeed if this goes on much longer.'

The detective inhaled deeply as he extended his wings; enjoying the play of it through his feathers.

After days of being cooped up in bed, Sherlock was so grateful that John had_ finally_ given his permission today for him to get up and walk around, that he was quite ready to kiss him.

Being outdoors was indeed liberating on so many levels, and he took great gulpfuls of the clean country air; so different from being in the heart of London.

It was hard for the winged to be inside so much.

Of course being in the minority, they had pushed aside many of their natural instincts and adapted to living with the flightless. But that desire to inhabit wide open spaces was still there; dormant but yet tugging fiercely at some point in their belly, which gave them a reputation for being "twitchy" by their wingless counterparts.

After one last refreshing stretch, Sherlock curled his left wing on to itself to tap repeatedly on John's back.

The doctor grimaced with a flush of embarrassment, but obediently he practiced opening his wings in the way Sherlock had suggested.

Of course John was happy he could now do this all on his own, but at the same time he felt completely stupid. He wondered when he had allowed himself to become so blinded by his misery, that he couldn't figure out a solution so simple.

To be sure, if Sherlock had so much as dared crack a smug smile in his direction (which he had every right to do), John would have punched him in the face. Instead, the detective now looked away with a utterly bored expression.

Oh no, not good.

John knew from experience that a bored Sherlock was a bad thing, and there was a large shot out smiley face on the wall of their room to prove it.

The small doctor warily stepped back from the ledge, suddenly worried that a freak thought might enter the other man's head to push him off.

'John?'

'Yes, Sherlock?' he replied tentatively, watching him from the corner of his eye.

There was no warning for what happened next.

One second Sherlock was standing there; staring thoughtfully up at the sky, and in the next moment he was gone in a moving wall of black.

John's jaw dropped open in shock as he stared up at his friend as he suddenly took flight; climbing higher and higher with each powerful sweep of his huge wings.

'Jesus Christ!' the doctor swore loudly, scrambling to get his mobile out of his pocket and his gun from under his jacket, unable to tear his eyes away as a Sherlock shaped shadow shot up in the air like a rocket; silhouetted against a brilliant red, orange sky.

'DON'T SHOOT!' he yelled down into the phone's tiny mouthpiece, 'Lestrade! It's Sherlock! Don't shoot!'

'Calm down, John,' the Inspector assured him in a completely unconcerned voice, 'I would know that irritating pair of wings anywhere. Bloody bastard is trying to provoke a reaction from your smuggler friends. Good idea on the whole, but he could have given us a heads-up. Well at least we know these trackers you have under your skin work just fine.'

With his heart hammering away in his chest, John spared a moment to glance at the tree line and lawn, but all was quiet.

Then he looked back up, just as Sherlock came out of his climb; snorting with exasperated laughter when the man waved happily at him.

Bloody git! He was going to kill Sherlock if the smugglers didn't do it first.

'Come down!' John shouted up at him, but predictably he was ignored.

As the doctor watched the other man flying almost effortlessly in a lazy circle, a small wistful smile tugged reluctantly at the edges of his mouth, and his heart filled with a sense of longing.

He wanted to be up there again too. He missed flying so much, sometimes it felt as if his skin was on too tight.

John had been debating it awhile, but now he knew without a doubt that when this was all over, he would ask Sherlock to take him up with him.

Sherlock was brave, and he cared about him in his own peculiar way. He would accept the risk to his safety and fly with him, John was sure of it!

The doctor shielded his eyes, to better see the man as he glided along a convenient air current. The edges of Sherlock's dark wings seemed to blaze with a hidden fire as the fading sun beat upon him from above.

'Alright there, John?' the Inspector asked, noting the long silence.

'I do believe that I have bit of a man crush,' John revealed with a giggle.

Lestrade laughed softly, 'yeah, he's really something special when he's likes this. Ninety percent of Scotland yard is in love with his looks, I think. '

'Hang on...we're just friends,' John said sharply; regretting that he had let his mind drift briefly in such a fanciful manner.

'I don't care what you two are,' Lestrade replied blandly, 'get him down, this is dangerous.'

John concurred.

Sherlock's little stunt would prove to their smugglers that he was on the mend, and therefore John wouldn't stay for much longer now. If they wanted John at all, they would have to come soon.


End file.
